


Doctor's Orders

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-24 06:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: The green-eyed monster rears his ugly head at a cocktail party. Column universe-ish.





	Doctor's Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Another one. (You'll see what I mean afterwards.)
> 
> Disclaimer: For the kazillionth time, nothing is mine but the words in this order.

"It's just a drinks party."

Bridget stared up at Mark as if he had just ordered her to walk the plank off of a ship at sea. "It's not just a drinks party. It's trial by fire for me."

He snorted a laugh. "Bridget," he said, taking her hand tenderly. "You're great at social events, and a good portion of these people you'll already have met at the wedding and other far more formal events."

"They expect more of me now that we're married."

"That's not true."

She blinked, then set her jaw firm. "Are you saying they don't expect much of me anyway?"

"You're creating catastrophe where there is none," he said.

"Oh, now I'm overreacting."

"Right now, yes, you are."

She sighed. "My dress is horrible and I'm going to burp at the wrong moment."

"Is there ever a right moment?" he asked wryly.

At that he actually caught her smirking. "You can afford to be nonchalant," she said. "They won't be judging you."

"They're not going to be judging you," he said. "All you have to do is be yourself."

She pursed her lips. "I refer you to my previous comment."

He chuckled then reached and took her into his arms. "You'll be fine. I promise you. And aside from one outfit many moons ago, I have never seen you wearing anything I'd consider horrible."

She pushed back. "One outfit? Which? The tapestry dress, or the bunny girl outfit?"

"I think you already know my opinions on the latter," he said drolly. "It's true we probably won't spend a whole lot of time together, and we probably shouldn't, but you can more than hold your own against these people. No one's going to bite you."

"I'm not so sure about that," she said, her face solemn. 

"Darling," he reassured. "All you really have to do to guarantee success is not call them balding, upper-middle-class twits." Before she could object, he added, "Even if they are."

………

He had no idea what she had been worried about. She came downstairs dressed in a pretty cocktail dress, royal purple in colour and knee-length, black satin heels and loose curls tumbling down over her shoulders.

"I know," she said.

"You know?"

"Bland and awful."

"You're mental," he said. "You look gorgeous."

She chuckled, but still looked unconvinced. "You're not just saying that?"

He raised a brow. "Give me a little credit, Bridget. While it's true I'm biased, I also would want you to know if you were dressed inappropriately for one of these things."

She smirked. "I guess I'll have to take you at your word."

The party was a charity mixer at a small gallery, but he had thought it probably best not to tell her in advance anything more than cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. As they entered the place, though, he realised this had been a tactical error.

"I thought this was going to be some 'do at, I don't know, Camilla's house," she said confidentially but excitedly as they entered the gallery arm in arm. "Why didn't you tell me it was here?"

"I didn't think it mattered," he said, fibbing a bit.

Once she saw it was more of a social event than a stuffy lawyers' party, she relaxed tenfold, and when Mark got pulled away to mediate a discussion about politics in South Africa in the eighties, he did not worry about her ability to hold her own in the least.

It was not until the conversation was winding down that he thought he might go and find her, maybe bring her a drink and see if she was having a nice time. His eyes scanned the crowd for that striking purple dress of hers. As he suspected, she was not hard to find.

She was deep in conversation too, off to the side of the gallery and away from the bulk of the crowd, with a man Mark did not know or in any way recognise. The man was probably as tall as Mark was, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, spectacles and a broad smile clearly intended for Bridget, whose back was to Mark. He watched them from a distance; it was obvious they knew each other from the way they were talking to one another, the body language, the occasional touch of her fingers on his upper arm and other animated gestures, signifying ease and familiarity. The clearly smitten expression on his face was impossible to misinterpret, and he could only wonder what her own features looked like.

Who was this man that had his wife so in thrall? He felt his hackles slowly rising. Was this a heretofore undisclosed ex-boyfriend? How close had they been? How serious had their relationship been? Or—he thought it unreasonable even as he was thinking it—was this someone she'd just met and fancied more than she should?

"Mark, old boy, who's that with your wife?"

He returned to the present at Camilla's smugly accusatory voice. He did not want to admit he didn't know, but saw no way around it. "I'm not sure. I don't recognise him."

"My, but they look awfully cosy," she said. "And he's a handsome fellow."

"Better get over there," said Derek. "Your wife certainly seems to have an admirer."

"Excuse me," said Mark curtly as he stepped away, hearing the crowd of them chuckling as he strode purposefully away to where Bridget and this mystery man were conversing. As he approached Bridget's eyes turned towards him; to Mark they looked almost startled. 

The stranger turned too.

"Mark!" said Bridget. Belatedly she smiled, as if she needed to think about it. "Everything all right?"

"Was just coming to see how you were," he said, looking pointedly at the man with her. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

He looked back to her just in time to see a look of confusion cross her face. "No?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

"I think I would have remembered."

The man offered a smile, and extended his hand for a shake. "I'm Peter Rogers. Bridget and I were acquainted some time ago."

Mark's eyes flashed back to his wife as he accepted the handshake out of courtesy. "Acquainted how?"

"We met at a party," Peter said.

"That's right," she said, reaching forward to touch Peter's arm again. Mark clenched his teeth. "Can you recall exactly how long ago, Peter?"

"Mmm, a few years at least," he said with a grin. "Took you out for pizza."

Bridget smiled playfully, glancing to Mark. "That's right. And ice cream, if memory serves."

"And dinner… and a walk in the country."

"You were so lovely and kind, and wise," she gushed. "He's a doctor, you know. Oh! We didn't actually meet at the party. We met at the Health Centre."

Peter chuckled. "That's right. I think I examined you once."

He tried not to think what sort of examination it might have been, but was unsuccessful. Involuntarily Mark stepped closer to her and slipped his hand around her waist. "Is that so?" he asked. 

He realised his tone must have been vaguely threatening, his action possessive, because Peter blinked rapidly three or four times and he stammered, "C-contact lens in eye."

"Yes! Got my lens out—" She stopped. Then she smiled at her husband in such a tender yet amused way that he knew then she knew he was feeling a bit jealous. "Then we had that one pizza date together while I was still mooning over Daniel, and dinner, and…." She turned back to her friend. "I should have listened to you, Peter. What was your advice? 'Don't fall for gits who think…'" She trailed off.

"'Love is a joyless game,'" Peter supplied. He glanced to Mark. "I presume you're the lucky man who wasn't one of those gits. You're Mark."

"Yes, Peter," she said, suddenly mindful that her husband had not introduced himself. "This is Mark." She looked up just then with such affection in her eyes that Mark felt ashamed for any suspicious thoughts he might have had. 

He felt a smile hovering upon his lips. "Yes. I am the lucky man."

She laughed lightly and looked down demurely.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mark, though I must admit a bit of regret for the path not taken," he said, though his smile was genuine. "Bridget's looking even lovelier than I remembered. How long have you been married?"

"A few months," said Mark, just as Bridget supplied:

"Three months, six days and twelve hours."

Peter chuckled. "I have never have had good timing. Well, Mark, very nice to have met you. And… Bridget." He turned to her once more, his gaze lingering a little too long on her body for Mark's liking. "Very nice to see you again."

She smiled. She was clearly flattered. "Nice to see you too." She leaned forward for what Mark thought would be a quick, friendly hug but instead was a peck on his cheek. Mark did not relinquish his grasp on her waist. "Bye," she said as he walked away.

They stayed at the party a little bit longer, but Mark found he had lost his appetite for socialising, and said barely two more words for the entire time they remained. He also remained very close to her side, despite his prior suggestion that they should spend the time apart mingling.

At the end of the evening, when they got in the car, Bridget turned to him with a smile. "I had a very nice time tonight. You were right. They're not so horrible, and I got to see an old friend again."

He swallowed hard. "How well did you know him, Bridget?"

She raised her eyes. "Already told you, Mark. I went out with him three times."

"Why did you stop seeing him?" he asked. 

She snorted in disbelief. "What does that matter?"

"You didn't answer the question," he said. "Did you sleep with him?"

She stared at him. "Unbelievable," she said. "Mark, your eyes are looking very _green_ tonight."

"Did you?" he asked again.

"I'm not going to dignify that question with an answer," she said quite incisively.

He sighed heavily then started the car. He knew precisely why she had thrown that statement at him, yet the question was irritating all the same. Why not just give him a straight yes or no answer? He glanced to her, saw she was turned away and looking out the window, keeping her eyes trained on anything but him. Sighing again, he began to drive, keeping his attention on the road before him.

Before too long he felt her hand sliding along the back of his as it rested on the gear shift. "I did not sleep with him," she said quietly. "He's a very nice man, very polite, extremely intelligent… but there was no physical spark to speak of when I was with him. We parted as friends."

He rolled to a stop at a red light, then turned to look at her. The expression of tenderness on her face was almost more than he could bear. "I'm sorry, Bridget. I was overreacting."

"I know," she said, then allowed a small smile. "I was set to let you suffer, but you looked so tortured I couldn't not tell you."

He chuckled, glancing down.

"You know anyone in my past has no bearing on us and our future," she said.

He nodded. "I do know that." The light went green; they moved forward. "I just could not help but notice tonight that the physical spark seemed very much there for him."

"That still has no bearing on anything," she said. "Maybe you just need to accept that sometimes other men might find your wife attractive."

"Or women," he mused.

She laughed. "That too." She went quiet. "I do realise the same goes for me. I haven't always been rational about it, either."

He raised his hand up off of the gear shift, bringing the back of her hand up to place a kiss there. "It's agreed then," he said.

He heard her chuckle.

They spent the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence. As he parked in their drive, she asked, "Do you really think so?"

"Think what?"

"I mean, I just didn't see it," she said. "He was just being his usual friendly self."

It occurred to him that she was wondering if he really thought Peter was regarding her with more than just fondness for an old acquaintance. "I saw him looking at you, Bridget," he said. "A little longer than he should have, especially given that I was standing right there."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "He wasn't."

"He was," he said. "And staring very decidedly at your chest."

She sputtered a laugh of disbelief.

"I mean, I can't say I blame him," Mark continued. "But he was."

She turned to him with a impish smirk. "I didn't notice," she insisted. "He's not the one whose looks make me breathless."

He looked at her intently, gazing deeply into her eyes. "Are you feeling breathless now?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm."

He raised his hand to touch the backs of his fingers on her cheek. "You're looking a little pale, too. Perhaps you need a little doctoring."

"Oh, I can't think of any doctor that can cure me," she said, covering his hand with hers, entwining her fingers in his. "A lawyer, perhaps."

He chuckled. "Let's attend to that straightaway then."

At that she dove forward and kissed him deeply, placing her hand on his cheek then combing her fingernails up into his hair; for a moment there he thought perhaps he might be willing to overlook the fact that they were still sitting in the car. She started to laugh under her breath and broke away from the kiss. "Maybe not straightaway," she said.

"Maybe not."

They went into the house hand in hand, and within moments of locking the door behind him he had her in his arms, resuming that kiss with her, elevating the passion exponentially.

"You're feeling a little warm," he murmured, nibbling her earlobe, his hands sliding down over the fabric and cupping her bottom. "Does it hurt if I do this?"

"Mm, no," she said.

"How about this?" he asked, pressing his hands firmly into her, pressing her into him.

"Hm, I can feel something right about here," she said, bringing her hand down between them and over the front of his trousers.

"I'm the doctor here," he commanded. "And I think we ought to get this dress off of you stat."

She laughed, took him by the hand and tugged him up the stairs.

Once in the bedroom, he divested her of her dress; he ran his fingers up along her skin as he pulled it up and over her head. "Oh, it's worse than I thought," he said quietly, bringing his fingers up to trace along the satin of her bra cup. "It's all going to have to go."

She laughed throatily.

"Doctor's orders," he added. His fingers came to the clasp on the front.

"I'm not complaining," she said. "Well. Except for the fact that you're wearing too much."

It was his turn to chuckle as he retreated his fingers, but only long enough to shed his own clothing, then he had her in his arms again, flicking the clasp open with a practised twist. As many times as he had had taken her smalls off of her, that moment in which her body was revealed to him in its bare glory never failed to excite him. "Very warm indeed," he said, bringing his hand up under her breast, brushing his thumb along her nipple. She made a soft sound that was in part a sigh, in part a giggle, at least until he covered her mouth with his and kissed her deeply.

He felt her hands come around his waist and press into the small of his back; she took a step back, then another, directing him forward until they arrived at the bed. She leaned back against it, brought her hands down onto his backside, before bringing one around to examine the state of his burgeoning arousal and apparently doing everything she could to hasten its bloom. Without conscious thought he moaned into her mouth. She broke from the kiss to whisper steamily into his ear, "Not warm. Burning hot."

"Mmm," he rumbled, leaning forward to press her into the bed, then reached to hook his fingers under her knees and raise her legs up. She tossed her head back and made a satisfied, throaty sound of amusement; he nuzzled into her neck, took her hips in his hands and held on tightly as he thrust up into her. The lovely little sound she made as he did was closer to a growl than a groan; it fed his desire, fuelled his passion, brought him to greater and greater heights of rapture until he bowed back and cried out in his release, holding her against him fiercely.

"Oh, love," he said, leaning down over her again, kissing her on the mouth; for the sake of her own ecstasy, he rocked back and forth until she started whimpering, then he broke the kiss to place his lips upon her breast, gently pulling the hardened tip up between his teeth until her cries escalated and he felt her buck up into him, her own climax reached.

"Mmm," said Bridget, exhaling loudly, stretching her arms out at her sides. "I feel so much better now."

He laughed low in his throat. In all honesty, he did too.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> HF sure does love the name 'Peter'! This is the third canon Peter we meet: Waspy (the ex-boyfriend that she dated for 7 years and broke up with for heartfelt reasons she could no longer recall); Mark's brother in Hong Kong; and Dr Rogers ([his first appearance](http://bridgetarchive.altervista.org/columns/18april1995.htm), and [his second](http://bridgetarchive.altervista.org/columns/25april1995.htm)). 


End file.
